


Chicken Blood is Thicker Than Water

by Biter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Haunting, Horror, Other, Undead, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 11:29:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2506169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Biter/pseuds/Biter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Prompts: Barbrey Dustin/Roose Bolton, Sharing Horror Stories, Ghost Hauntings, Zombies/Reviving the Dead, Werewolves and Hunting.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Chicken Blood is Thicker Than Water

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notyourparadigm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notyourparadigm/gifts), [Part of the Bolton Fic X Change](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Part+of+the+Bolton+Fic+X+Change).



> Prompts: Barbrey Dustin/Roose Bolton, Sharing Horror Stories, Ghost Hauntings, Zombies/Reviving the Dead, Werewolves and Hunting.

The maids inhabiting the servants quarters on the floor below Ramsey Bolton’s chambers hadn’t slept well in over a week. The strange, agonizing moaning and grunting sounds from above would start and stop every few hours. Among the simple smallfolk, whispers of the untold horrors of flayings and other treachery at the Dreadfort were commonplace, but never had anyone claimed to bear witness to such a haunting. 

Ramsey, himself, was exhibiting behaviors that suggested he was being tortured by something so malevolent that he could no longer function properly day to day. He ate little, lost his zest for hunting and whores, was no longer defiant, and seemed to have lost his sadistic streak. 

No one was happier about this development than Roose Bolton. After a year of marriage, Walda had suffered three excruciating, bloody miscarriages and it was becoming abundantly clear that no legitimate heirs would be forthcoming from this union. It was high time Ramsey learned to control his urges or, at the very least, practiced some discretion, and began concentrating on developing the skills and characteristics expected of a good leader. After all, he was all Roose had left. 

For the third day in a row, Roose stood at the window of his study and watched Barbrey Dustin as she emerged from the back door that led to the steps of the basement kitchen. Her arms laden with a heavy basket, she stealthily crept across the courtyard toward the elegant, marble crypts behind the row of trees at the end of the lane. 

When visiting the Dreadfort, Lady Dustin always spent a ridiculous amount of time in the crypts. She still mourned for her beloved nephew, Domeric, and her sister, Bethany. Even with the passage of so much time, she could not move past it, and although he was ever courteous in his dealings with her, Roose had come to dread her tedious visits.

So when she had written last year, informing him of her intention to leave a distant cousin of Lord Dustin’s in charge of the day to day operations at Barrowtown, and asking to move to the Dreadfort semi-permanently, Roose had reservations. But in the end, he gave his consent. The alliance with the Dustins and Ryswells was far more important than his personal discomfort.

She had arrived just weeks after his marriage to Walda and from the very beginning, it was different. Her fog of grief had lifted. She no longer spent hours next to the tombs, weeping and praying, or sitting sullenly at dinner, glaring accusingly at Roose, as if he were to blame for it all. Her visits to the crypts were shorter now, and she spent a great deal of time in the company of Walda, for which Roose was grateful. 

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. “Come,” he commanded.

The door swung open and the mangy gamekeeper, Griffin, lumbered in. “Beggin’ yer pardon, m’ Lord,” he began, his head bowed and eyes fixed on his filthy boots. “We gots us a problem. Chickens been disappearin’ from the pens fer days now. Ain’t no blood nor signs o’ scuffles or nothin’, so I don’t think it’s no varmint.”

“Are you suggesting we have a poultry thief in our midst?” Roose asked, pointedly.

“I don’t know nuthin’ ‘bout no mist, but I’m pretty sure somebody’s been stealin’ chickens,” Griffin replied, dumbly.

Roose stared at him contemptuously. “Very well, I shall make inquiries. You may leave.”

Dismissing him abruptly, Roose turned back to the window and observed Lady Dustin as she emerged from the crypts, the basket she carried, notably lighter.

 

With the pain coming in waves, Ramsey slept fitfully that night. Reek was in the kennels with the hounds and he was alone in the room. 

He was awakened by a soft scratching sound that quickened his heartbeat and paralyzed him with fear. Most people would be amazed to learn that Ramsey Bolton, that cruel, nasty, murderous excuse for a human being, was, in fact, afraid of the dark.

The scratching sounds were getting closer and soon gave way to soft whispers. He thought he could make out the words “Ramsey,” and “That’s him.”

He froze as he felt the weight of something tugging at the blankets as it climbed onto the bed. Wide-eyed and terrified, he strained to see. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, the clouds moved, and a beam of moonlight shone through the window, illuminating the area around his bed.

There were three of them. Children. Babies, really. Blonde and pale. Sickly looking. They sat next to Ramsey on the bed and stared at him solemnly with icy-blue eyes. His own eyes. 

The two larger babies chuckled softly and nodded encouragingly toward the small one, perhaps not yet a year old, who then crawled onto Ramsey’s chest and looked him in the eye.

“You got any fried chicken?” the sweet-voiced baby asked, speech far too advanced for a child of that age. 

Ramsey snorted. This had to be one of those dreams that seemed real….a manifestation of his painful intestinal woe. Both relieved and amused, he rolled his eyes and replied sarcastically, “….Uh, no.”

“That’s too bad,” said the baby as it opened its’ mouth to twenty times the normal size, unhinged its’ jaw like a snake to reveal rows of sharp, uneven teeth, and tore a gaping hole in Ramsey’s throat.

He bled to death quickly, while the babies looked on, curiously. At the moment of death, his bowels opened up and released the bounty of rancid fecal matter he had strained to rid himself of for weeks. At last, there was silence in the Dreadfort. 

The servants in the rooms below just might sleep well………tonight.

 

Roose woke just before dawn and slipped quietly from the bed, so as not to wake his wife. 

She no longer cried herself to sleep every night, but she often lay awake until the wee hours of morning. This was almost harder for Roose to take. With the hysterical crying, he only had to hold her until she calmed down and drifted off in his arms. He told himself it was a simple enough inconvenience if it would afford him a good nights’ sleep. But he didn’t know how to deal with a wife who lay staring wide-eyed at the ceiling as if in a trance. What was he supposed to do to make that better? Most nights, he just turned his back to her.

Walda had lost her zest for life, her exuberance. There was a time when she could not keep her hands off him, begging for his attentions in the bed chamber. She liked it, too - that much was certain. After two wives who were more frigid than winter itself, there was no denying Walda’s enjoyment of the act. She had moaned and talked dirty and done things to him that he never dreamed a woman, a lady, would do. 

But now, she showed little interest in the physical aspect of their marriage, even shrinking from his touch, at times. He supposed it was difficult for her to enjoy the physical intimacy when she had suffered so much pain and loss as a result of it. Although he would never admit it, not even to himself, her rejection only made him feel more protective and fond of her. 

But there was light at the end of the tunnel. Lady Dustin had begun to spend long hours with Walda, coaxing her to venture outdoors, enjoying leisurely walks in the crisp air and afternoon teas by the fire. The motherly nurturing was good for Walda. And it had been good for Barbrey, too. She seemed at peace, somehow, and now spent far less time in the crypts and more time with the living.

Roose was so pleased that he ordered expensive fabrics and fancy laces from the coast as a gift for them both. They spent much time discussing dress designs and having fittings with seamstresses. Some days, he thought he caught a glimpse of the old Walda, the sweet, good-natured bride he had brought home to the Dreadfort. But the nights were a different story…….

He dressed quietly and donned a heavy coat, better to conceal the sword and dagger he carried, and prepared to leave the castle by way of the back entrance. When he found the person responsible for the chicken thefts, he would cut off his hands. Fitting punishment - let him try to steal another chicken with no hands. He smiled sadistically at the thought. 

Before he could make his way down the corridor to the back stairs, a blood-curdling scream pierced the silence. He turned abruptly, drew his dagger, and ran toward the shrieking.

 

Immediately following Ramsey’s death, Roose doubled the guards inside the castle and dispatched hunting parties to find the beast that had killed his last remaining heir. The only animal in the North capable of inflicting such vicious damage was a direwolf, but they were rare in these parts and how had one found its way inside the gates, ripped out Ramsey’s throat, and slipped away just as quietly without leaving any trace? No bloody paw prints, no hair, nothing. Among the servants, there were whispers of werewolves. Roose did not believe in such mythical nonsense. Whatever had killed Ramsey was not from a fairy tale.

With the Dreadfort on lockdown, nobody was allowed to enter or leave the castle without Roose’s express consent. Yet, as he rose from the desk of his study to replace a book on the shelf, he glanced out the window and saw Barbrey Dustin hurrying down the lane to the crypts, heavy basket in hand.

Furious and not even bothering to put on a warm coat, he stalked out of the castle in pursuit.

There were two large rooms inside the white marble structure, one for men and one for women, and a smaller room at the back. Roose crept past the tombs of his female ancestors, noting the rustic carvings on each stone. 

He passed the final resting places of Bethany and his first wife and proceeded down the row, noting the names Myra Mains Bolton, Bea Flayed Bolton, Yetta Nother Bolton. He smirked when he reached the tomb of Luna Tikk Bolton with the ironic inscription “Wife of Elric Bolton. Here lies my wife, I bid her goodbye, she rests in peace, and now so do I.” Even as a child, Roose had found that highly amusing.

He stopped suddenly when he heard the voices. They were coming from up ahead, near the special room where children were laid to rest. He crept forward slowly, turned the corner and froze in his tracks.

They were tiny and frail. Exactly as they had been on the day each had been laid to rest in his little, white burial gown. They looked up at him with sad, pale eyes. Icy-blue eyes, just like his. 

For a long moment, they stared at Roose, almost as if they were seeing a ghost. The biggest one finally spoke. “She didn’t feed us.”

Stunned and disbelieving, Roose staggered backward, tripped and fell, hitting his head on the stone floor, knocking him out cold.

 

When he awoke, he was in Lady Dustin’s bed. A dull ache in his head, he struggled to remember.

His sons with Bethany. Alexander, who died just short of his second name day from an unknown sickness that made him waste away until he was merely skin and bones; Zane, who’d lived barely past the age of two and succumbed to the same unnamed disease; and baby Eamon, not quite eight months old, who died in his cradle from a failure to thrive, too weak to even cry by the end of his short life.

“No doubt you have questions.” It was Barbrey. She sat across the room in a hard-backed chair, facing the roaring fire.

Confused, Roose stammered, “What….what are they?”

Barbrey rose from her seat and approached the bed, sitting tentatively on the edge. “They are what they seem to be.”

“But….they’re dead. I buried them. Years ago.”

“And I brought them back,” she said.

Roose was incredulous. “How? Why?”

“An ancient blood ritual. I was sick with grief for so long. Domeric was like a son to me and I wanted to bring him back, but you only get one chance to get it right and I wanted to be certain the ritual would work. So I experimented on …….your other children.”

“So…..they’re alive?”

“Not exactly. They….live, but they’re different.”

“Different?”

Barbrey sighed. “I wanted to practice the ritual without using actual human blood, so I used chicken blood. I don’t know the extent of what that did to them, but I do know that they crave fried chicken. That’s all they will eat.”

“So, you’re the chicken thief. I suppose cutting off your hands is out of the question.”

She ignored his snide remark. “But that’s not the only way they’re different. They can talk, almost like adults. They can think and reason, to a certain extent, and they……they can transform into something not quite human. Something….horrific and deadly.”

Roose was silent for a moment. “Are you telling me that those things are what killed Ramsey?”

“Yes. I’m afraid that was my doing, although unintended.” There was no love lost between Ramsey and Barbrey, yet she sounded truly remorseful.

“They had questions. About their parents, and…. other things….. I told them how Ramsey killed their brother and how he was most likely responsible for the loss of Walda’s babies. They were angry. I think they did it for revenge.”

“You suspected Ramsey of causing Walda to miscarry?”

“Of course. Didn’t you? Surely, he was poisoning her. What other reason could there be? Walda is a strong, healthy young woman. She has no problem getting with child and should have had no problem carrying a baby to term, much less three of them.” She then wrinkled her nose distastefully, as if she had just pictured Roose and Walda in the act of making a baby.

She lay down next to Roose, placing her hand gently on his chest. “It was a foolish mistake,” she continued, sadly. “I was wrong to think I could bring Domeric back and that he’d be the same as he was in life. I know that, now.”

Roose did not respond to her attempt at comfort, and they spent the next half hour in awkward silence, staring in the direction of the fire.  
Finally, he spoke, “What are we going to do with them? They’re dangerous.”

“I know. Because of their supernatural state, I don’t think we can simply kill them. Once I realized what I had done, I panicked. I burned the texts containing the ritual. If I hadn’t, it might have given us a clue how to destroy them.”

“Then it would be best to keep them locked up and fed, for the time being. Give them some warm blankets and a soft place to sleep, perhaps.”

Barbrey scoffed and abruptly removed her hand from Roose’s chest. “You think of them as they once were, not what they are now!! Those creatures have no needs other than to be fed!”

“As you say,” Roose replied, looking away and thinking of their sad eyes and tiny, bare feet on the cold marble floor of the crypts. “But, still…….”

“I’ll make the arrangements then,” Barbrey snapped, as she rose suddenly from the bed and prepared to leave the room. “You need to rest.” 

“Wait. One of them said something strange to me. Just before I fell. 

Barbrey looked alarmed. “They spoke to you? What did they say?”

“It was just one of them. I think it said, ‘She didn’t feed us.’ What does that mean?”

Barbrey’s eyes brimmed with tears as she whispered, “I had hoped to spare you this. It was Beth. She…….barely fed them. That’s why they…..”

Roose Bolton’s stomach lurched and he had just enough time to lean over the side of the bed before he vomited all over the stone floor.

 

Two days after his encounter with the undead in the crypts, Roose received a raven from Walder Frey, requesting his presence at The Twins for a counsel of the Northern Lords to discuss the advancing menace that was Stannis Baratheon. Under the circumstances, Roose considered sending someone else in his stead, but in the end he decided that as long as those “things” were locked up, there was no immediate threat, and so he answered the summons himself.

Along with a small group of trusted men, he made the trip to The Twins in a little over a week, only to find that it was unnecessary. Word had reached The Twins days earlier - Stannis had died in his tent of a fever and his army had disbanded. Refusing all but the most modest of accommodations – a bath, meal and bed for the night – Roose started for home the next day at first light.

The journey gave him time think, and his thoughts were painful and full of regret. He could not let go of Barbrey’s words. Bethany had slowly starved his sons to death. What sickness of the mind would cause a mother to do such a thing? 

And what of Domeric? He had grown strong and thrived. Why had she not starved him, as well? And then he remembered. She had nearly died from complications of his birth. Weeks later, when she had recovered fully, she had no milk, and Domeric had long since been handed off to a wet nurse.

He recalled his visits to the nursery, sending the servants on some errand or other so he could be alone, and holding each of his little sons in his arms in the days before they died, their sad little eyes looking up at him. He remembered feeling powerless to save them from their mysterious illnesses and privately wondered if Bethany were to blame….if there was some weakness in the Ryswell family line. But, starvation….. How could he not have known? 

As they crossed the river on horseback, blowing the horn to signal their approach, Roose could see the gates begin to open. Once inside, it became apparent that there had been trouble in his absence.

The courtyard, usually bustling with activity, was nearly deserted. He was greeted by Griffin, the gamekeeper, who took charge of the horses, and Maester Ayleth, who looked full of dread.

“Lord Bolton. I must speak with you. It’s a matter of urgency,” the maester said.

Roose nodded and led the way into the castle, which seemed equally deserted. Inside his study, he gestured for the maester to be seated, and called down the hallway for a servant to bring food and drink. 

When there was no answer, Maester Ayleth chose his words carefully, “Begging your pardon, My Lord, but most of the servants have fled. We have only a skeleton crew – myself, a few guards, a cook and one of Lady Walda’s maids, who refuses to leave her mistress.”

“Don’t mince words. What has happened?” Roose tried not to appear alarmed.

“It started when Lady Dustin disappeared. Two days after you left for The Twins.”

“What do you mean, disappeared?”

“We did not become worried until she had missed both breakfast and the midday meal. When she hadn’t appeared by supper, Lady Walda asked me to search her chambers for anything that might explain her absence.”

“And did you find anything?”

Maester Ayleth took a deep, cleansing breath. “Yes, My Lord….but I did not think it wise to trouble Lady Walda with my findings…..so I waited for your return. I found these things arranged neatly on the floor, in the middle of the room. It’s as if they were placed there deliberately by……..someone…..so they were certain to be found,” he paused. “You should prepare yourself.” 

He produced a rudimentary doll, made of corn husks and seemingly dressed in scraps of the crimson fabric Ramsey favored for his tunics. There were sewing pins and other sharp objects protruding from the abdomen of the doll and a cord had been tied tightly around the midsection.”

“Seven Hells, what is that?”

“It appears to be a poppet. A means of delivering a curse.”

“You found this in Lady Dustin’s chambers?” 

“Yes, My Lord. And there is more. He removed the lid from a small tin, revealing crushed leaves, and handed it to Roose, instructing him to smell it. 

“Spearmint.” Roose said. “What of it?”

“I fear it’s Menta Pulegium, commonly called pennyroyal. While there are some legitimate medicinal uses for the plant, when the leaves are dried and crushed such as this, they become toxic. This form is most commonly used as an abortifacient…….to rid a woman of an unborn child.”

The color drained from Roose’s face but, outwardly, he remained stoic. He recalled Walda complimenting Barbrey on the wonderful, exotic teas she brought with her from Barrowtown to share during their afternoon tea parties. She had especially enjoyed the spearmint variety...... 

“I also found this,” Maester Ayleth declared, handing Roose a thin book. “It’s her journal. I think you should read it.” He rose quickly and moved toward the door, seemingly anxious to be rid of the book. “I shall instruct the cook to prepare you food and drink.”

Almost as an afterthought, Maester Ayleth said, “And that servant, Reek…..he has disappeared, as well. He was to deliver Lord Ramsey’s carved stone to the crypts, but he never returned from the errand……” His voice trailed off, the implication being that under the circumstances, nobody wanted to venture into the crypts to search for him. 

Alone now in his study, Roose opened the journal and began to read. 

It was full of pitiable narratives of her grief over Domeric’s death, how she thought of him as her own son, how Ramsey was responsible for taking him away from her forever, and how Roose was to blame for it all by bringing his vicious bastard into their lives. 

To his utter shock and surprise, the journal was also filled with lament over her unrequited love for him. She longed to be Lady Bolton, as far back as Roose's marriage to her sister, Bethany. Her bitterness at being unable to bear children because of her advanced age, thoroughly convinced that if not for that fact, she would be his next wife. And when he had taken a new, young wife, it was more than she could bear. Her spiteful jealousy of Walda was made very plain. She gleefully referred to her as “that fat sow.”

Roose was the scapegoat for all her unhappiness and to punish him, she would destroy him and everything he valued. Her writings revealed her scheming lies and further outlined the fiendish plot to torment him with the so-called abominations she had created in the crypts. Her despicable cruelty and hatred knew no bounds.

She boasted of how she had caused Walda to lose her babies, fooled Roose into thinking that Bethany had starved his children to death and the immense satisfaction she felt for creating so much physical and emotional pain. She gloated over her success at manipulating the undead children into murdering Ramsey for her, and outlined her plans to eventually do the same to Walda and, finally, Roose. 

Walda! He bolted from the room, the journal still in his hands.

 

The door was barred. He pounded and yelled her name for several long minutes. As he was about to remove the small axe from his belt to break in, she opened the door to the sitting room.

“Roose! You’re back!” she exclaimed, happily, throwing her arms around his neck and holding on for dear life. “Oh, how I missed you, husband!”

He held her tightly, relieved that she was safe. For the first time in their marriage, it was Walda who pulled away first.

“Oh, you won’t believe it!” she gushed, breathlessly. “I prayed every night. And….well, you’ll just have to come see!”

She grabbed him by the hand and led him toward the bed chamber. When he crossed the threshold, his heart nearly stopped.

Zane sat on the floor, playing contentedly with a set of building blocks, his cheeks plump and pink. Alexander, equally healthy-looking, was jumping up and down on the bed, next to a squirming pile of blankets.

Walda stormed across the room, grabbed Alexander by the wrist and planted a hard smack on his bottom, making him scowl and whine. 

“Oh, you naughty boy! Look what you’ve done! You woke your baby brother!”

She dragged him across the room and plopped him down at the table in front of a small plate of roasted carrots. “I told you not to get off that chair until you’d eaten your vegetables! You can’t live on just fried chicken! Now, finish your dinner!”

Walda turned her attention to the wailing pile of blankets as Alexander picked up a piece of carrot, lifted it to his nose, sniffed it, and promptly threw it on the floor.

“I saw that!” Walda exclaimed, sternly, although Roose didn’t know how she had seen it, with her back turned.

Alexander immediately straightened up in his chair and began to eat his carrots, although his expression remained pouty.

Observing it all from his spot on the floor, Zane laughed and stuck his little tongue out at his brother.

Walda reached into the blankets and pulled out a tearful baby Eamon, his tiny fists rubbing his eyes as he cried.

“Oh, it’s alright, sweetling.” Walda cooed, as she kissed his little head.

He ceased his crying immediately, whimpering, “Mama…,” and snuggled against Walda’s ample bosom.

“Aren’t they just beautiful?” she asked Roose. “When I found them, they were so cold and hungry. Poor babies. I knew right away that they needed me……and that my prayers had been answered!” 

She kissed the baby’s head once more before handing him off to Roose. “Look baby…..look who’s home. It’s Daddy.” 

Roose held the child gingerly, not knowing what to expect. Eamon was no longer skinny and sickly. His face and body had filled out considerably and his bright, little eyes gazed at Roose adoringly.

Walda continued to chatter as she went back to the table and picked up Alexander, who had finally finished his vegetables, gave him a kiss and told him what a good boy he was before putting him down on the floor next to a pile of toys. "They climbed into bed with me one night and asked me if I had any fried chicken,” Walda babbled on. “They seemed so sad, the precious darlings. I tucked them into bed with me and told them they would be safe and loved and would have all the fried chicken they could ever want…..”

While she was occupied, Zane jumped to his feet and ran to Roose. He stood by his side, hopping up and down until he reached the journal Roose still held at his side. He grabbed it, ran to the fireplace and threw the book into the flames, turning to give Roose a look that told all he needed to know of Barbrey Dustin’s fate, before returning to his blocks.

“……I’m so glad I saved all the baby clothes and toys in that big trunk! I didn’t want to be reminded of……. but I didn’t want to give up hope that I would need them one day…..” Walda continued, as she took a drumstick from the platter of fried chicken on the table and returned to Roose’s side. Beaming, she handed the drumstick to the baby who took it, smiling sweetly.

Walda was in her glory. Where did she think these children came from? Did she think them orphans abandoned at the front gate? Did she truly believe that the Gods had answered her prayers and these were the babies she had lost? Or was she so happy to have this seemingly perfect family that she chose not to question the origin?

Roose pondered these questions as he closed his eyes and impulsively pressed his face to Eamon’s warm head, rubbing his cheek against the soft, sweet-smelling hair. This was real…..it was all real. If Walda could accept it, who was he to question it? 

Barbrey Dustin was dead and could hurt them no more. His children were alive and Walda was safe and happy. That was all that mattered. 

He thought it ironic that Barbrey tried to destroy Walda with her vile hatred but in the end, it was Walda who destroyed Barbrey, with her abundant love. Barbrey’s plan had failed miserably and, instead, she had given them an incredible gift.

Baby Eamon opened his mouth wide and bit off the top of the drumstick in one bite, bones crunching loudly as he chewed.

An incredible, terrifying gift…….


End file.
